


that one trans losers fic

by gayuris (nepetaleijon)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Gen, M/M, Multi, Sorry Not Sorry, Third Person POV, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Losers Club, Trans Male Character, me out here projecting again, thats all I got, this is gonna be really gay also, this is literally just. all this fic is guys, ummm and theyre just supportive friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepetaleijon/pseuds/gayuris
Summary: the entire Losers Club is trans and they support one another and are generally good friends and it's valid





	1. the sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> welp. heres a fic. (dj khaled voice) another one  
> alternative title to this chapter: if youre trans and im trans, then whos driving the bus?

Stan smoothes his skirt (again), glances around, fiddles with its hem. The dress is a light blue, collared, and he hates it. Hates how it feels against his throat, hates how it tightens around his waist, hates how it sits on his hips, hates how it makes him look, hates everything about it. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if the others can tell how uncomfortable he feels right now. He hasn’t told them yet, isn’t sure he has the right words to--how do you say, “oh, hey, I know what I look like, but this isn’t right, but I’m a boy, but I always have been?” without being laughed at? He knows that any of the other kids in his grade, hell, in his town, would mock him or beat him up if he dared to say anything. All the same, he’s not sure how much more of this he can take--he feels like he’s choking in his skin sometimes, when it gets really bad, and the pressure builds up in his throat until he’s not sure how he can keep the words inside him anymore. He’s sure the rest of the losers would be nice enough to humor him, at least to his face, but he’s still scared, both of losing them and of admitting--well, admitting that he’s anything but normal, happy, just like any other kid. So he takes a deep breath, smoothes his skirt (again), and tries to pay attention to his friends. 

Tonight’s a sleepover night, a regular occurrence for them. They usually go to Belle’s; today, they’re out in the barn where Michaela’s dad’s fixed it up so that the loft is comfortable and safe enough for sleeping bags. Stan’s not sure how most of the losers convince their parents to let them attend these sleepovers; he’s sure there’s a certain amount of lying involved, though he never asks. He usually just tells his parents that yes, he’ll be supervised, and no, there won’t be any drugs or alcohol, and so long as his parents know whoever he’s staying with and his homework is done, he’s allowed to go. (There’s not a lot they could do to keep him from going, anyways, he thinks; he’s been sneaking out his bedroom window at night since his middle school years to visit any one of the other losers). Regardless, they all end up at most of the sleepovers without fail.

Rach was on snacks tonight; as always, she’s a good half-hour or so late, much to everybody else’s annoyance. When she finally shows up, the other losers make sure to shoot a few scathing comments her way, though light-heartedly. Stan just rolls his eyes. He’s come to expect a certain lack of punctuality from her. She flops down next to him and he offers her a smirk, trying to pull his head away from her as she reaches out to ruffle his hair. 

“How’re my favorite losers hanging?” she crows, and Stan lets out a fractional sigh of relief at the avoidance of the world ‘girls’. It’s been getting on his nerves lately; he just can’t stop noticing it, like a splinter you can’t see but can feel, itching and burning away under the skin. 

“Better before you showed up,” Stan manages to get out, moving practically into somebody’s lap--a quick glance shows him it’s Michaela, he tries not to blush--to get away from Rach’s hand which is still messing with his curls.

“Yowza! Steph gets off a good one!” she almost yells with delight, and Stan can’t help but wince. His face is schooled almost immediately back into one of appropriate disdain, but he knows Rach notices by the look she gives him, which is curious and searching and asking all sorts of questions he’s not ready to answer. So he turns away, back to where the rest of the losers sit, playing a board game that he thinks might be Clue, and, in Beck’s case, smoking. He’s not sure that’s the best idea, what with all the hay in here, but he knows Beck’s been extra stressed lately, even if he won’t open up to any of the rest of them, so Stan decides to let it go. 

He’s always been Stan to himself, ever since he can remember. He has memories of playing with other kids in the neighborhood, of making alternate personas for themselves--Belle was always Bill, Rachel always Rich, Edith always Ed--where he could be Stan the adventurer, and fight the bad guys from the movies they’d seen earlier that day. The game didn’t last longer than a few weeks before a grownup found out and told them off; even then, Stan remembers Rach had a smart mouth and a quick one, too, and ended up getting them in even deeper trouble. But he sometimes wonders if he’s always known, if even then, he had some idea of what he knows is true now of himself. He remembers being sick over it for years, trying to deny it, but he just--he’s not gay, or at least, he doesn’t really think so, he likes girls fine and guys, too, but he’s just… not a girl. Never has been. Never will be. He takes a breath, almost says something, but is interrupted by a cheer of exultation from the other side of the loft.

“Yes! I knew it!” Edith cries triumphantly, hands in the air. Apparently, she’s just won Clue, because the others are groaning. 

“I was so close to figuring it out,” Brenda sighs, slumping backwards slightly. Stan reaches over to offer her an awkward pat on the shoulder in sympathy and she turns back to smile at him. 

“I don’t th-think anybody’s beaten E-Ed-Edith at that g-game,” Belle gets out, grinning. 

“Me neither,” Stan seconds, shaking his head. Nobody’s really mad, they’re not the type of kids to play games to win (except during Monopoly--Belle’s banned it in her house since the last time, when they made so much noise arguing over one another that her parents had to step in). The atmosphere is light; it’s getting to be summer and they’re about ready for school to get out, making it hard for anybody to be in a bad mood. Maybe Beck, from where he sits over on the far side away from Stan, but he’s been weird for awhile now, so Stan doesn’t count it. Almost as if he can hear Stan’s thoughts, Beck looks up, offers him a weak smile, stubs out the cigarette on the windowsill. 

“Hey guys?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes them all turn to look at him seriously. 

“Yeah?” Brenda asks, at the same time that Rach says “what’s up?” Beck is fiddling with his fingers, which are linked in his lap; he won’t meet their eyes, and Stan finds his heart beating faster even as he leans forward to hear better.

“I just… I don’t know how to say this, and I don’t want any of you to think of me differently, but… I mean. I just. I don’t really think I’m a guy? I don’t feel like a guy, I feel like. I feel like I’m a girl,” she lets her breath out, “yeah. I think I’m a girl.” Stan’s heart is beating like crazy, his mouth dropped open; to his surprise, Edith is the first to move, crawling towards her and taking her hands. It’s Michaela or Brenda who moves next, but suddenly, they’re all there, crowding around her, soothing her, holding her close. Stan’s not sure who says it first but--

“Me too,” somebody says, and then suddenly they’re all saying it, and looking at each other, and laughing, and Stan’s crying and laughing because he should’ve known, of course he should’ve, they’re all in this together, they’re all the losers, he loves them with all his heart and he’s so, so glad he’s not alone, and there’s somebody wiping at his tears but he’s not sure who. 

“My name is Stan,” he blurts out, loudly, and the others look at him for a second before nodding. Rach sticks his hand out, does one of his voices:

“Well, nice ta meetcha there, pal, I’m Ruh-Ruh-Richie atcha serr-vice!” and even if Stan has no idea who Richie’s trying to mimic, he’s glad for the support. He takes the hand, only to pull Richie into a hug. It turns into a group hug, all the losers re-introducing themselves, names fitting in his head where before they stuck out a little bit, like puzzle pieces left in the rain to warp and then pushed back into the picture without quite fitting right. This is better, he thinks, this is how they were supposed to be. 

Eddie’s the first to strip off his dress and offer it, unabashedly, to Beverly (Beverly, Bev, Beverly, so much better than ‘Beck’ ever was). She laughs because he’s a good few inches shorter than she is, but she does her best to get in it anyways--Eddie tells her he doesn’t mind if she rips it, in fact, if she’d like to burn it, he’ll be right there to torch it with her. The rest of the losers are following suit, they’re offering up their clothes, old and new, volunteering to take trips over to her house to bring them to her, (“you can even have these shoes!” Richie cries at one point, to which Bev shoves his foot away, laughing, with an “ew!”), and they’re all more comfortable and giggly and jittery than Stan thinks they’ve ever been. Bill looks a little bit out of it; he’s got his arms wrapped around his waist like he’s trying to hold himself together, and it worries Stan, so he moves over next to him and takes both his hands. 

“Hey, are you alright?” he says quietly, settling to his knees before the other boy, forehead creased in concern. Bill nods, looks like he’s thinking about saying something, pauses, opens his mouth to speak again. Stan brushes the hair off his face, tucks it behind his ear on impulse. 

“I j-juh-just,” he starts, pauses again. “It f-f-fuh-feels s-so w-w-wrong, I f-f-f-fuh-fuh-” he has to stop, with obvious frustration. “I feel-” he finally spits out, “so g-g-gross and b-bah-bad, luh-like this b-buh-body is j-just n-n-not muh-ma-hade f-for m-hee, and I h-h-hate it!” Stan can’t remember the last time he’s heard Bill’s stutter this bad; he didn’t realize how awful Bill felt. It sort of gives him a sick feeling in his stomach; of course he doesn’t feel good about his body, or the way people see him, but he’s never felt quite the way that Bill seems to, and he wonders if it means that he’s faking, or that he isn’t as much of a boy as the rest of them. Luckily, he’s saved from responding when somebody else moves in and takes over; it’s Mike, who holds Bill close and tells him that he knows, and rubs soothing circles into his back, while Stan still holds his hands. 

There’s some laughter from behind him; looking over his shoulder, he sees that Bev has finally managed to get into Eddie’s dress; it looks ridiculous on her, because Eddie’s so tiny, but she looks the happiest Stan can remember seeing her, and he can’t help but crack a smile. He looks around, sees Ben’s eyes alight, sees Richie’s animated hands, hears Eddie’s infectious giggles, and knows that this is absolutely right. He is hit with an overwhelming wave of love then, so thick it brings tears to his eyes--he is so glad that he has the support and the friendship of the losers. 

“Let’s go to Salvation Army tomorrow,” Mike says, suddenly, and they all look back over to him. 

“What?” Ben asks, voicing the question all of them are thinking.

“Why the hell not? Let’s go buy some clothes--some good clothes--tomorrow morning. I can take the truck; we can stop along the way if you guys want to grab anything to give to Bev or to donate, and then we can stay as long as we need. They’re the closest place to find cheap stuff,” he finishes, shrugging. The rest of the losers make eye contact, nod, but Stan has hesitations. 

“I know that it’s probably not a bad place to look, but…” he starts, uncertain, trailing off. 

“Wearing other people’s clothes is unsanitary--do you know how many germs they could have, or, or--how do we even know they washed them?--and with so many people touching them, every day--what if somebody wet their pants in those, and then you’re putting them on you? That’s so gross!” Eddie picks up for him. 

“We can wash them once we get back here,” Ben cuts in, rationally. 

“You’d wear clothes from us, right?” Bev points out. 

“Well, I mean--that’s different, I know you,” Eddie states, but Stan can tell he’s considering it. 

“So long as we can wash them when we get back,” Stan says, after a moment of consideration. He just wants to feel comfortable, to feel less like a stranger in his own skin for once. And he knows the rest of the losers need this, badly, especially Bill, who has been uncharacteristically quiet this whole time. Stan moves to running fingers through the other boy’s hair, hoping to calm him down and soothe him some. He and Mike together seem to be doing an okay job, but there’s still some worry in the pit of his gut. 

“T-t-tomorrow, then,” Bill manages, when they all turn to look for his assent. With their plans set, they return to their nightly activities, putting on a movie and setting in on the snacks Richie brought over, but there’s a noticeable difference in the atmosphere. When Eddie leans over to smack Richie’s hand away from the popcorn--”you’re hogging it!”--there’s an “ouch, geezums, Eddie Spaghetti!” that has Eddie lighting up like a Christmas tree and the rest of them grinning, and when Ben leans over to tell Bev that she looks pretty later that night, she beams and gives him a kiss on the cheek. All in all, they’re a pretty sappy mess, and they don’t get to sleep until quite late that night.

\---------------

Stan is one of the first people up the next morning; the sun’s risen outside and he can’t usually sleep past five or six, anyways. He’s not sure where Bill is but the rest of them are all accounted for; Eddie’s curled into Richie’s side (which is, quite frankly, adorable), Mike’s holding Ben’s hand, whose leg is linked through Bev’s, and his shoulder had been up against Stan’s before Stan sat up in his sleeping bag. Bill’s empty sleeping bag is on the other side of his; touching it, Stan finds that it’s still a little bit warm, meaning Bill can’t have been up for long. He’s probably just gone out to the bathroom, but Stan feels like after last night, it would be best to check, so after a minute more of resting, he pulls himself out of his sleeping bag into the cool morning air and slips down the loft ladder to investigate. 

The walk from the barn to the house is a short one, but Stan pauses for a couple of minutes to look around. There’s no breeze, which means it’ll probably be hot today, but there are a couple of crows out in the field, and a few more birds he sees flying far away that he can’t quite identify without his binoculars. His feet are getting cold, so he keeps moving, opening the back door of the farmhouse quietly and padding down the familiar hallways to the bathroom door. It’s closed, so Stan knocks a couple of times, softly. There’s some sort of noise from inside, muffled; he’s not sure how to respond, so he just gives it a couple seconds. 

“Bill?” he asks, tentatively. “Is that you?” There’s a pause.

“Y-y-ye-” his voice cracks, “y-yeah.” There’s another pause.

“Are you…” Stan tries, “are you okay? Can I come in?” Silence. Stan starts to think he might never get a response, but then the door cracks a bit.

“Y-y-you have t-to prom-muh-mise me th-that you… y-you won’t l-lau-laugh,” he whispers, and Stan’s face softens.

“You know I won’t,” he says, and when that doesn’t get a response, “it can’t be that bad, anyways.” The door creaks open further, so that Stan can see Bill’s face, or part of it, and the worry comes back full-force when he sees tears in Bill’s eyes. 

“P-p-puh-please d-don’t l-luh-lie to me w-when I sh-show you,” he says, and Stan finds himself nodding. He opens the door fully, finally, and looks down, and Stan can see past him, see the scissors on the counter and--is that hair in the sink?--Bill’s long, straight, shiny hair has been lopped off unevenly, and it’s especially patchy in the back, and Stan knows Bill can probably read his face like a book, so he steps inside to wrap Bill up in his arms instead.

“It isn’t so bad,” he finds himself saying, “you look much more--you.” He pulls back, considers. “You know you’ll always be handsome to me, right?” he adds, quietly, tilting Bill’s chin up a little so their eyes can meet. Bill’s breath catches, he pulls his face away to bury it in Stan’s shoulder, and Stan lets him because he can feel the hot tears soaking through the fabric of his nightshirt and figures that Bill probably needs this and honestly he’d do anything for Bill, anyways. 

“Hey,” he adds, suddenly, “if you want, you could probably ask Bev to cut it for you, too--she’s good with hair, remember how she did her own that one time?” He’s thinking back to middle school, when Bev decided her hair had gotten too long and taken scissors to it one day. It looked almost professional, and he couldn’t imagine it would be any harder to do it on somebody else. From where he’s still quietly sniffling into Stan’s shirt (which Stan is politely trying to ignore), he can feel Bill nod.

“I w-wuh-would like that,” he whispers. “C-c-could y-you-?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Stan says, before Bill can even finish asking, “I’ll be right back.” He presses a quick kiss to Bill’s forehead before he can talk himself out of it, and then turns and walks back the way he came, this time without stopping to birdwatch. 

The rest of the losers up in the loft haven’t moved much in the short time Stan’s been gone, though Mike’s eyes open as Stan climbs up the ladder. He winces out an apology, and Mike waves him off with the hand that isn’t linked with Ben’s. 

“Is Bill…?” he whispers, noticing the empty sleeping bag.

“He’s fine,” Stan replies with a small smile, moving over to where Bev is sleeping and gently shaking her awake. “Hey Bevvy, sorry to wake you. The rest of the guys are still sleeping, I was just wondering if I could borrow you for a second?” She sits up, gently untangling her leg from Ben’s, stretching and yawning. 

“Yeah, yeah, just give me another minute,” she says, rubbing her eyes. Stan can tell the moment she notices Richie and Eddie cuddling, because her smile turns impish and she lets out a quiet giggle. He gives a little snort in response. 

“I bet it takes them another three months to get together,” Mike whispers over to them, leaning up on an elbow, and Stan has to cover his mouth not to laugh and risk waking them. 

“No, longer than that!” Bev replies, mock scandalized. “I give it a year without any interference.”

“I’m calling… four months, maybe fewer if Richie can pull his act together,” Stan says, pretending to think deeply about it. 

“Hey, why do you assume Richie’s going to make the first move?” Bev protests.

“Yeah, if anybody, it’ll be Eddie,” Mike agrees.

“I don’t know, guys, Richie seems like he would blurt it out on impulse if we pushed him hard enough,” Stan says with another quiet snort. They giggle about it for a while more. 

“Alright, alright, for real though--what did you need me for? I’m assuming this wasn’t it,” Bev asks, laying a hand on Stan’s arm.

“No, you’re right--it’s Bill,” he says, standing. Mike eyes them curiously. “I’ll explain in a second; he’s fine,” he adds hastily, seeing the worry in Mike’s expression. Beverly nods, as though this is all the information she needs, and stands up to follow him. He leads her out the door and away from the barn, reaches out to stop her just before she can reach the door to the farmhouse.

“Is there something wrong?” she asks, worried, and he shakes his head.

“No, it’s--I mean, I don’t think so, at least, just--he tried to cut his own hair and it’s a little,” he gestures with his hands, trying to come up with an appropriate word, “uneven. And, you know, you cut your own hair that one time and it looked really nice so I was hoping you’d be able to help him out a little? I don’t really think he wants the other losers to know, I mean, Richie’d probably tease him for awhile about it, and I think he’d rather just have it cut and be done with it,” he stammers. Bev grabs both his hands in her own; he didn’t realize he’d been wringing them. 

“Yeah,” she says, “I can do that, no problem.” And then, after a pause, “want me to do yours, too?” Stan blushes, considering. 

“I mean--yeah, that’d be really nice, but--” he stops, worry bubbling to the surface, building up in his throat, “I’m not--it’s not like the way Bill is, with me, it’s not that bad? And I don’t know if that means I’m not trans or something, or if there’s something wrong with me, or if I’m supposed to be like that and feel like that, and yeah, it feels wrong to see my hair in the mirror, but it’s--I can live with it, I guess.” He lets out a breath, feels relieved that he’s finally getting it off his chest, even though at the same time he’s feeling worried, afraid she’s going to judge him or hate him or--he doesn’t really know what, this is Bev he’s talking about, she knows him, she would never do anything like that, but he’s still worried.

“Hey, no, listen to me,” she says, cupping his chin, “you’re still valid, okay? Not everybody goes through the same experiences or feels the same way. You like your hair long? Cool. You want it short? Also cool. You can be trans and still want to wear dresses, or you can be trans and not be able to stand wearing dresses. It’s different for everybody, and your experiences are no lesser than Bill’s, or Mike’s, or anybody else’s. You’re allowed to feel however you do,” she assures him, and he nods, comforted even if he’s not fully convinced.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, closing his eyes for a minute. “If you’d be willing to, and you have time, I’d really like that, for you to cut my hair. But you should do Bill’s first,” he adds, opening his eyes quickly, as if to stress the importance of this. She nods, considers him.

“You really have it bad for him, don’t you?” she asks suddenly, smile playing across her features. He shoves her away, blushing, unable to hide a smile of his own.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, straightening his sleepshirt, and pushing open the door before she can say any more. He heads straight in without checking to see if she’s following, and knocks again on the bathroom door, which has closed in his absence. 

“I’m back,” he says quietly, and Bill opens it much more quickly than last time.

“T-tuh-took you long en-nuh-nough,” he manages, and his gaze moves over to Bev, who is taking in the rather choppy mess of his hair. 

“I’ll take it from here,” she says, moving forward and laying a hand on Stan’s arm. He steps aside so she can get past him and smiles reassuringly at Bill. 

“Let me know when you’re done,” Stan says, waving a hand vaguely, “I’ll be… out here somewhere.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bev says, “now get lost and let me get to work!” He laughs and leaves them to it, stepping out to see if he can spot any other birds. He’s not quite ready to go back to the barn yet; the idea of himself and Mike being the only two awake in the loft is filling him with nervous butterflies that he doesn’t quite want to think about yet. He can see Mike’s dad out in the fields, working; he knows that by now, he’s probably fed the animals, which is usually something Mike helps with. Exceptions are made on sleepover days, which all of them appreciate. 

Standing there, he thinks over something that’s been bothering him. He doesn’t really know what to do; he’s always looked up to Bill, as their leader, but until recently, he didn’t really realize that what he felt was anything more than platonic. And to confuse things even further, he’s been feeling the same sort of nervous jitters around Mike, who Stan’s always admired for his strength and his compassion and his unwavering loyalty. Thinking about it sort of gives him a headache, because as much as he tries and tries to compare the two, and to figure out where they’re different and where they’re the same, he can’t tell who he likes more and he just doesn’t know how to choose. He knows he can’t have them both; that sort of stuff just doesn’t happen here, or anywhere, for that matter. Although, he guesses, being transgender doesn’t really happen here in Derry, either. It’s just that--well, Stan isn’t great with emotions; they don’t cooperate, or work rationally, and they’re always getting in the way and complicating things. He tries to keep them organized, compartmentalized, under control, but these feelings just seem to defy any sort of order, and he hates it. How is he supposed to make a plan, to know what to do, when he can’t think clearly?

It’s not doing him any good to stand in the still-cold morning air, he supposes; the sun hasn’t come out yet to burn off the chill, and he has goosebumps standing out on his pale arms. Back to the barn it is, then. He can probably get a head-start on packing up his sleeping bag and folding and situating his clothes in the backpack he brought with him, so long as he works quietly. 

By the time Bev comes to get him, he’s managed to get everything packed up and ready to go, except for his pajamas and toiletries; his outfit for the day is sitting out in a neatly folded pile in front of his bag. Mike is reading a book, pressing it against the floor and holding it there with his forearm so that he only needs one hand to turn the pages, fingers of his other hand entwined with those of the still-sleeping Ben’s. It’s honestly adorable, and Stan tries not to think about it, because otherwise he’s pretty sure his heart will melt. Bev pokes her head over the loft’s edge, beckons Stan to follow her, and he silently makes his way, once more, down the ladder. He’s pretty sure he’s climbed up and down from the loft more times this morning than any person should ever have to, but he supposes it’s worth it. 

At the bottom, Bev’s almost bouncing with excitement; she refuses to tell him how Bill’s hair looks, but he’s sure things have gone well if she’s this happy about it. Stan’s not sure it’s really hit him that he’s about to have all his hair cut off; he’s not sad about it, but he’s not really sure how he’ll explain it to his parents, either. He hopes it doesn’t make him look too weird. He reminds himself that if it does, he can always grow it back out, but he’s still nervous. His palms are sweaty. 

Bev cuts him off before the bathroom, insists that it has to be a surprise, and makes him turn around while she brings out Bill. Stan’s not sure why the dramatic reveal is necessary, but feels himself getting caught up in it, laughing, covering his eyes with his hands in compliance with her wishes. He can hear shuffling behind him before Bev says it’s alright for him to look, and he vaguely registers her “taa-daa!” as he turns back. The fact is, she’s done a really nice job. Bill looks really, really good--he always looks good, but now he just seems to be glowing with it, and something catches in Stan’s chest. He doesn’t say anything, not sure what to say, and Bill grins nervously. 

“D-does it look al-lright?” Stan just nods, eyes wide, reaching out a hand to run the short red hair through his fingers. 

“It’s,” he clears his throat, tries again. “It’s great. It looks really good, Bill.” Bill’s cheeks are red; Stan’s sure his are, too. 

“Your turn, Stan!” Bev says, cheerily, somewhere to the side of them. Stan takes a hasty step back, pulling his hand in as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. He nods, breaks eye contact with Bill, steps to the bathroom door.

“Right,” he says, “I was thinking--I have a couple of pictures from magazines, do you think you’d be able to do something like them?” Bev considers his request, moving in to join him as he sits before the counter in a chair that looks like it’s been taken from the Hanlon’s kitchen. He can hear the back door of the farmhouse open and close as Bill leaves. 

“Probably,” Bev says. “Mind if I have a look?” He hands over a couple of creased magazine clippings; they’re nothing special or extravagant, just a couple of simple curly hairstyles. They’re short and look pretty easy, not that Stan knows the first thing about haircutting. Bev’s nodding, though, brow set in concentration, so he thinks it’s a pretty good sign.

“Yeah, I’ll do my best,” she says, glancing up at him in the mirror. He smiles at her, nods, and they begin. 

It feels like he sits in the chair for hours, alternating between closing his eyes so she can cut the hair that falls across his forehead and watching closely in the mirror as she works on the rest. A couple of times she has him tilt his head one way or another, but eventually she steps back, looks him over with a critical eye, and declares him finished. He washes all the loose hairs out in the shower, dresses in a button-up shirt and an a-line skirt, and then steps out for her to fiddle with his curls and check over his hair one last time. She nods, satisfied, and he moves to the mirror to look closely at the final product. It’s better than he could’ve ever imagined; it fits him well, makes him look older, much more androgynous. He has to wipe away a couple of tears. He never thought, never imagined, he could look like this, and it’s everything he had hoped for and more. He feels so much better, feels so comfortable, feels like something is finally him, and it’s--he doesn’t know how to describe it, doesn’t have the words. He doesn’t know how to tell Bev how much it means to him, so he just hugs her tightly to him, and whispers thank you’s in her ear. He thinks she probably understands when she pulls back to tell him that he’s welcome, eyes shining. 

They head back to the barn, hand in hand.


	2. the Salvation Army trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sldkfjsdl i hope this isnt too emotionally roller-coaster-y   
> welcome to part 2 of I Project On Fictional Characters pls enjoy
> 
> how do i italicize things in ao3 somebody send help

Breakfast is a noisy affair, with everybody exclaiming over Bill and Stan’s new haircuts, generating plans for the day, cracking jokes, and tossing jibes here and there. Eddie looks about ready to murder Richie within three minutes of sitting down at the table, Bill downs enough cups of coffee to mildly concern the rest of them, Bev and Mike get into an arm-wrestling competition at one point, and somehow, Ben manages to fall back asleep in his pancakes. All in all, it’s a pretty typical morning. They’re all charged with a shared energy, an elation, a certainty that things are changing, finally. Stan revels in it as he eats his breakfast, watching them all fondly as they banter around him. Once they finish, Stan helps Mike wash up the dishes; they work together in comfortable silence, radio on in the background. He’s already packed his things, and Mike doesn’t have to, since it’s his house, so it’s just the two of them in the kitchen. At one point, Mike’s granddad pokes his head in to check in with them and Mike explains that they’ll be taking the truck for a bit; he lets them go after giving Mike the typical lecture about driving safely, and just like that, they’re ready to hit the road.

Riding in Mike’s truck, all seven of them, is always an experience. There’s enough room in the cab for six to fit, but not all of them, unless somebody ends up in someone else’s lap. Instead, a couple of them usually end up in the back, lying down on the blankets left in it for that purpose, trying not to be seen and yelling to be heard over the wind. They trade off or rotate sometimes; more often than not, though, it’s either Richie or Bev or the both of them racing to get to the bed of the truck before the others. Stan doesn’t mind; he’s not really one for jostling around every time they hit a bump in the road, and it always messes up his hair, anyways. Today, he ends up in the front, sandwiched between Mike on one side and Bill on the other. He’s pretty sure it’s Bev’s fault; she somehow always knows how to meddle with them, even when they don’t say anything. She’s in the backseat with Ben; they’re talking animatedly about some book Ben picked up from the library the other day. Richie and Eddie are in the bed, and through the back window, Stan can occasionally see a hand or two as Richie gesculates wildly. 

Their first stop is Richie’s house; his parents are pretty chill, if a bit distant, and always seem happy to see the Losers. Because all of them are in the truck, though, Richie just makes a quick run in to grab some of the things he doesn’t want to keep. Even if they won’t all fit Bev, he can donate the rest once they get to Salvation Army. The Losers understand there are things that just feel better to get rid of, to not have to look at anymore, to not have to open a closet to, and so even though they have to wait for a few minutes for Richie to return, none of them protest or complain. He’s pretty quick, anyways, throwing an armful of rumpled clothes in at Bev’s feet before hopping back into the trunk. 

They move to each Loser’s house--except Eddie’s, seeing as nobody really wants to deal with his mom unless absolutely necessary--and repeat the process each time. At the end of it, they have a fairly sizable pile of clothes in the back, in varying sizes and styles, half folded neatly and half tossed in and scattered. Bev is having a ball; she and Ben are laughing at some of the clothes that are obviously too small for her, or that aren’t at all her style, and sorting them into piles to keep and to donate. Mike’s drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, humming idly to the music from the radio, and Bill’s looking out the window, watching the scenery pass by as they drive out of Derry. 

It doesn’t take them long to reach Salvation Army; there are a few cars in the parking lot, but Stan isn’t too worried about seeing anybody from school. It’s too far out of Derry and it’s cheap, second-hand, and dingy. In other words, it’s absolutely perfect for them. He has to fight the feeling of his skin crawling that he gets from thinking about the people who have worn the clothes before him, but he knows he can do this. It’ll be worth it to have a closet full of things he feels comfortable in, himself in. Eddie looks similarly uncomfortable; Stan grabs his hand and gives it a squeeze as they walk up to the door, and Eddie shoots him a grateful look. 

They’re quiet as they step in, taking in everything around them. Of course, Richie is the first to break the silence, hooting loudly enough to disturb the customers around them as he dashes into the men’s section, digging through graphic tees to try and find something he likes. The rest of them are a bit more careful, breaking off to look for things that suit their tastes. They get more than a few sour looks, but nobody says anything, thankfully, and Stan is able to brush them off. For all they know, he’s shopping for a brother or a friend or something, right? He flips through the racks of pants, nose wrinkled slightly; nothing here really seems to stand out to him, and he’s starting to lose hope a bit. 

“Hey Stan, how about this?” Ben calls over, holding up a polo, and hey--that’s not bad, Stan can work with that. He doesn’t mind polos. He moves over in that direction and finds that there are a few more, and some button downs, too. They’re all solid colors and simple patterns, greens and blues and yellows, and he’s feeling pretty good about it. He finds a couple of pairs of shorts, too, khakis that fit him alright, even if they’re a little too long. He tries them on and has to sit down on the bench in the changing room and cry for a couple of minutes, because seeing himself like that--with his short hair, in his polo and his shorts--is beyond anything he could’ve imagined. The relief, the feeling of rightness is overwhelming. He knows the others are just as affected; he sees how puffy Mike’s eyes are when he comes out in a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt with men’s boots and a jacket around his waist, and it’s in Bev’s expression when she twirls for them in a flowy skirt and flats. 

There’s also a fair amount of messing around that goes on; Richie finds a fake sword in the home goods section and Bill grabs a lightsaber from the toys shelf and they play-fight around the store until the woman behind the checkout counter threatens to kick them out. Eddie is coerced into trying on the ugliest sweater vest Stan has ever seen and Richie almost cries laughing while Eddie threatens him with murder. Ben finds a book about knitting with dog hair and Bill grabs one about how to defend oneself from garden gnome attacks. Mike pretends to make them a meal with an old pan he finds over a toy stove, and Bev acts like a judge on a cooking show, docking him points for making the fake food “too dry” as Mike wipes away pretend tears. At one point, Richie finds and presents Stan with the creepiest bird stuffed animal ever made, which he promptly throws across the store in fear and disgust while his friends laugh. Unfortunately, this is not the only thing that Richie finds for Stan; he appears with the ugliest shirt on the rack, a men’s extra large collared affair, all white, with massive ducks embroidered across the chest. Stan buys it just to spite him, even though he’s pretty sure it’s been hanging in the store for about 20 years.

They make sure to end off their trip with a mock fashion show; by some unspoken agreement, they all seem to know that it’s important they try on their outfits here, in the company of friends, before they leave and are forced to return to the real world. It’s a festive affair, with Richie commentating for the others (though Stan, and probably also the rest of them, notice that seeing Eddie in his pink polo and slacks with the legs rolled up renders Richie speechless for a good thirty seconds). Stan politely and quietly applauds for each of his friends, but he can’t hide the massive smile on his face. It’s just that they all look so much more alive and comfortable in styles and clothes that they chose. It’s like a piece he never realized was missing had finally fallen into place; if he thought they were close before, now he’s realizing how much closer, happier, and more real with one another they are. 

A couple hours later, they finally leave the store, each with a couple bags full of clothes. Stan knows he feels lighter, more buoyant, as though just by the act of leaving behind a few of his dresses and replacing them with shorts, he has lost some weight he never knew was pinning him down. He feels like he could do anything, like he’s on top of the world. He’s feeling so good, in fact, that he actually gives Richie a high five for one of his jokes. The gasp and look of amazement he gets in response makes it all the more worth it. 

They pile back into the truck, comfortable and, in Stan’s case, worn out--shopping always tends to have that effect on him. Bev seems exactly the opposite, keyed up and excited, chattering with Ben and occasionally Mike or Bill as well. When she’s not talking to them, Bill and Mike hold their own conversation across Stan; he doesn’t pay much attention, choosing instead to stare out the window. He’s not sure if it’s just him, but it feels as though the closer they get to Derry’s town limits, the more and more quickly the warm feeling he’s had in the pit of his stomach seems to evaporate. He doesn’t want to bring anybody else down, so he doesn’t say anything, but he notices the anxious set of Ben’s eyebrows as they pull together a little more, and the way that Bill crosses his arms across his chest as though to protect himself. Even knowing that they’ll all have one another’s backs is not enough to take away from the dawning realization on each of them that they’ll have to do a lot of explaining to their parents (or, in Bev’s case, her aunt) and that they’ll be taking a lot of judgement from other people if they actually wear this stuff in public, or even in front of an open window at the wrong time. 

The thing is, as long as they’ve been waiting for this, it’s also scary--terrifying. Stan knows, or at least hopes, that his parents will be pretty supportive after some adjustment, and he’s hopeful that most of the Losers’ families will be the same, but. But. Eddie’s mom will probably kick him out of the house if she finds out, which makes Stan sick to his stomach to think about, and Mike’s granddad is nice enough but he’s also strict and doesn’t really seem like he’d be all that accepting, and Bill’s parents probably won’t even notice, which is a sort of pain all in itself. And as much as he wishes that he could do more, he knows there’s not much support he can give beyond offering them a place to stay (if his parents still love him, if they still want him, if he’s still good enough, if they allow it) and being there to listen to them if they need it. His fingers worry at the hem of his old skirt, the one he was looking forward to never wearing again, as his anxieties start to multiply. 

His breathing is picking up but he only registers it vaguely because he’s starting to remember the kids at school, who may never be as malicious as Henry Bowers, but who still can, and will, make their lives miserable anyways; and the kids at synagogue, who won’t understand, who will gossip and sneer; and the parents on the streets, who might not spit at their feet but will certainly shoot them death glares as they avert their children’s eyes. It’s starting to hit him that people have been shot for worse, that he could become just another number, just another statistic, for daring to tell people his name. If he disappeared in Derry for being transgender, would people even consider it a pity? Or would they tell one another that he had it coming, and then quickly forget? 

And then, even if he thinks his parents will accept him, there’s always the worry that they might not. He doesn't know, how could he? He’s never asked them “would you still love me, you know, if I were a boy?” because you can’t just ask someone that, and how would he, anyways? And he’s panicking, because what does he do if they kick him out, or tell him that he’s never allowed to see his friends? What if they send him to conversion therapy? Or, worse, what if they call his friends’ parents, and they get kicked out or sent to conversion therapy or kept from ever seeing him again? 

Before he can get too deep in his spiral, he’s interrupted by Bill’s hesitant hand on his back and Mike’s steady, soothing voice telling him that he has to breathe, and he realizes that he’s shuddering violently enough to bother the both of them. And then he feels even worse because this was supposed to be a fun and relieving thing for all of them and his friends shouldn’t have to deal with him falling apart on them, and then he puts his head down on his knees because everything is too much and he needs a second to put himself back together. He tucks up into himself and holds his legs but even as he does so, Mike’s asking over his shoulder if Ben or Bev will stick their heads out the window to see if Eddie’s willing to drive for a little bit, and he’s pulling over and it’s all Stan’s fault. The next thing he knows, Bill is asking him if it’s okay if he carries him, before scooping him up like he weighs nothing so that the three of them can slide into the backseat where Bev and Ben were. Bev clambers into the passenger seat and Ben hops into the truck bed, and Eddie starts up the car and moves them back out onto the road like nothing’s happened. 

Stan hasn’t had a panic attack this bad in a while; his friends know he has them, but normally he can keep himself under control enough that he isn’t like this, shaking and quiet and curled in on himself. Bill and Mike’s concern, and the more quiet but still apparent concern of all his other friends, is just making things worse; he’s not comfortable with being the center of attention, and certainly isn’t comfortable with pity. He hates falling apart, hates showing his weaknesses to anybody, even to his friends. Maybe especially to his friends, because he doesn’t want them to see him the way the rest of their school does, doesn’t want them to realize that he’s the weakest link of the group.

“Hey, Stan, can you d-duh-do something for me ruh-real quick? Can you t-try to b-br-breathe with me?” Bill asks quietly, voice low. Stan tries to pull his act together, to get it under control so that his friends don’t have to worry about him so much. He wipes his face, sits up straighter, holds his arms tightly to suppress the shivers that make their way down his spine. He listens to Bill and Mike breathing steadily on either side of him, and wills his heartbeat to calm.

“I’m fine,” he says, as steadily as he can manage. Mike raises one eyebrow slightly, his way of calling bullshit. Stan pointedly ignores him. 

“Right, and I’m the King of England,” Eddie says, eyes still on the road. Apparently he has no qualms about vocalizing what he’s thinking, which--okay, Stan knew and should’ve expected from him, but he’s unprepared for it and finds he doesn’t know what to respond. He just stares straight ahead instead, holding himself stiff. Eddie sighs.

“Alright, I’m gonna pull over at the quarry, and we’re gonna talk about this, okay?” Stan knows that he doesn’t really have any choice in the matter, so he decides not to argue. Better to save up his energy for the confrontation to come. 

Unfortunately, it seems like mere seconds before they’re pulling off into a space at the edge of the thick woods surrounding the quarry. Talking is not Stan’s strong suit, especially when it’s about feelings; he doesn’t want to be doing this and feels uneasy with everybody’s eyes on him.

“Why don’t we get out,” he says, flatly, instead of answering the question hanging in the air around him. Everybody’s gaze turns to Bill, who shrugs, and clambers out of the truck; all of the Losers follow, and pick their way down to what they’ve all come to think of as their spot, near the edge of the quarry. They collapse in their usual positions; Bev’s got her head resting on Richie’s legs, while Eddie sits on his other side. Bill and Ben sit pretty close, with Mike on the ground by Ben’s feet; Stan comes last, completing the circle. In the middle is debris from fires they’ve lit in past years, times when they’ve come to hang out and talk and relax away from the judging eyes of Derry. Right now, though, it’s much more quiet; they’re all waiting for him to talk, but he’s not sure what to say, how to start.

“So… what happened?” Bev finally asks, turning her head to look up at him. He shrugs, makes a gesture to suggest that nothing out of the ordinary has gone on. He can tell they’re not buying it, though, so he finally gives in.

“It’s just… what’re they gonna think?” he asks. Nobody has to ask who 'they' are, all of them know that this whole damn town has it out for them. Eddie, surprisingly, is the first to respond.

“Who gives a fuck?” Stan’s head snaps up from where he’s been focusing intently on his feet, on the smudge of dirt on the inside of his right shoe.

“But--” Stan starts.

“No, no, wait, listen to me! Who gives a fuck what they think? They don’t know us, or what it’s like to be in our shoes. We deserve to be comfortable; they don’t get to take that away from us. And I’ll fight anyone who tries,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. Richie’s looking at him bug-eyed, which, given the magnification of his glasses, would be comical under any other circumstances. The rest of the Losers are nodding in agreement, but while it sounds nice, Stan’s not convinced. He knows this is going to have actual repercussions and he wants a concrete answer; he wants to know that he’s going to be safe. 

“Hey,” Bev says, noticing Stan pulling into himself again, “no hiding. What’s up?” He shifts uncomfortably, hating the attention. He can’t get away with pretending like nothing’s wrong though, not in front of the Losers. He lets out a breath. 

“People get killed all the time for being transgender. You know what our town is like. You can’t just promise that we’re going to be okay and will it into happening. We don’t even know what coming out is going to go like. How are we supposed to explain all of the clothes we just got to our parents? What are we going to do if it goes badly?” Each person considers his words; they’re all clearly deep in thought.

“My parents are pretty chill; I think they’ll take it okay. They don’t really get it but as long as they’re supportive, right?” Richie chuckles, a little nervously. “I mean, you can always crash at my place if you need,” he adds, seriously, “you know you’re the son my parents always wanted.” He winks, and Stan rolls his eyes, but knows that Richie really means his offer. Bev takes hold of his hand.

“We’re all going to take care of each other,” she says, facing him but speaking to all of them. “We’ll look out for each other and have each other’s backs. And I’m not going to pretend it’s going to be easy, because it isn’t. But we’ve only got a couple more years in this shithole, and then we’re out of here.” 

“Ooooh, we can buy an apartment together!” Richie practically sings with glee, before being elbowed in the ribs by Eddie.

“You don’t have to transition publically or tell people,” Mike adds, looking at Stan. “If you want us to only use your name and pronouns when we’re alone, we’ll support you.” Stan shakes his head.

“I don’t want that. I want to be me. But I start thinking about how my parents will see me, and my teachers, and the other kids, and even strangers, and I start wondering if they’ll hurt me. And then I think--all those other kids can wear the clothes they want and do their hair however they want and don’t get looked at twice.” The others are looking at him like they understand what he’s saying, like they get it, and that makes him feel a little better, to know that he’s not alone. 

The thing is, Stan has done his best to remain unnoticed. Being Jewish and having a friend group made up of people who tend to attract a lot of attention hasn’t really helped, but for the most part, he’s kept his head down and been left pretty much alone. And he likes it that way. Coming out? That would shove him straight into the spotlight, would rip away all his safety and freedom. He’d be judged by people who would never have to experience the process of coming out, who would never even realize the privilege they had in being able to use public bathrooms. He finds the whole thing patently unfair. 

“I g-get it,” Bill says, quietly, pulling him back to the present. “I know th-that they’re all g-guh-gonna be st-staring and talking and probably w-worse, and it’s hard and frustrating and unf-fair. And I know my p-puh-parents probably w-won’t even realize. B-b-but… but I c-can’t--I can’t live like this anym-more.” Stan nods. He realizes his friends are maybe the bravest people he’s ever met. 

“I don’t think I can tell anybody else yet,” Eddie blurts out, “at least until I can move all my stuff out of the house, you know? But Richie said I could leave my clothes in his room and I’m going to come out at school once I’ve moved enough stuff out that I can leave. ‘Cause once other people hear, I know it’ll reach her.” The others nod.

“Do you want us to wait until then, too?” Ben speaks up. “Because word about us will probably get to her.” The 'and once it does, she won’t let you associate with us anymore' goes unspoken; they all know it. Eddie bites his lip, considering. 

Bev jumps in, cutting off whatever Eddie would’ve said: “Maybe we should start small. What if we just come out to one person, see how it goes? I know my aunt’s pretty liberal; we could try her, and maybe leave clothes and stuff at my house if things go okay. It could be a safe space for all of us.” Stan considers it; it sort of makes sense. He wouldn’t have to worry about his parents finding any of his boy clothes in the wash, and it could be a sort of test run for coming out to other adults. Plus, it might be good to have a grown-up’s support behind them. He shrugs.

“That’d be really nice,” Eddie says, arms folded around his middle, as though he’s trying to hold himself together. 

“D’you still want me to hold onto your stuff, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie asks, undoubtedly coming up with some terrible joke as he speaks. “There’s plenty of room in the closet!” It’s worse than Stan feared; he puts his head in his hand.

“Had to stretch-ch for th-hat one, huh?” Bill snarks, at the same time that Eddie practically yells “that’s not my name!” There’s a snort from all of them, and then Eddie continues.

“Yeah, I guess. You’re closer, unfortunately.” It’s a weak excuse, but none of them are going to point it out. The sooner those two get together, the better; the pining and tension is getting old. 

“Cool,” Bev says, looking around to make sure they’re all on the same page, “glad we settled that, then.” 

“Are we doing it, like… right now?” Ben asks, a little uncertain.

“We have to,” Stan says, “or we have to keep our clothes hidden until we do.” 

“Let’s just do it,” Mike says, “if we don’t do it now, we’ll chicken out.” Unfortunately, he’s probably right, as much as Stan’s not really looking forward to it.

“L-like ripping off a band-d-daid,” Bill mutters, more to himself than to the group. Bev hops to her feet, pulling Stan up with her, prompting the rest of the Losers to follow. They troop back up to the truck and pile in; this time, Stan ends up sandwiched between Ben and Richie, Bill in the truck bed with Eddie, Bev up front with Mike. Mike takes a deep breath and starts up the engine, and together, they pull silently back onto the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got tired of looking at this chapter; sorry its shorter than the last one :') not sure when i'll get the next one up but i promise itll happen !!   
> feel free to hmu @cheeriogay on tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> can somebody teach me how to italicize things i feel weak nd sad  
> come hmu on tozenbrak.tumblr.com if ud like to! hopefully ill write more for this fic when im not so tired


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